


Let Me Buy Your Silence

by AuroraKant



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (somewhat), But Wintergreen Definitely Did, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Humor, M/M, No Smut, Slade Wilson Did Not Sign Up For This, Sugar Baby Slade Wilson, Sugar Daddy Dick Grayson, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 21:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30061452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/pseuds/AuroraKant
Summary: It took Slade three “missions” to finally figure out they were going on dates, and it took Wintergreen another three before he told Slade what some part of his mind had already known:Dick Grayson had somehow become Slade Wilson’s – Deathstroke’s – Sugar Daddy.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 101





	Let Me Buy Your Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/gifts).



> HAPPY (late) BIRTHDAY QUIL!!!  
> I don't know if you still remember the exchange we had about your fic-idea graveyard, but back then I promised myself I would write the Slade Wilson is Dick Grayson's Sugar Baby idea... and now I finally had enough motivation to actually write it!   
> Enjoy! <3

It took Slade three “missions” to finally figure out they were going on dates, and it took Wintergreen another three before he told Slade what some part of his mind had already known: Dick Grayson had somehow become Slade Wilson’s – Deathstroke’s – Sugar Daddy.

Not that Slade was to blame for the initial confusion, considering the fact that Dick had asked Slade for help in a drug trafficking case. They had fought side by side, Slade had made a few inappropriate comments, Dick had made a few jokes that were definitely worse. And if Dick paid for the food they got afterwards, that was only right. He had bought Deathstroke’s time after all, he should pay for his food supply as well.

The second time was harder to explain as anything but a date in hindsight. Nightwing had contacted him on one of his burner phones, asking for help during a reconnaissance mission. The reason? Dick needed someone who could show up together with him in civilian garb without being suspicious or endangering his secret identity. It was a good reason, one the analytical part of Slade appreciated. In the end the mission was a flob, but Dick had still been laughing by the time they left the high-end restaurant two hours after entering it, Slade’s stomach comfortably full. Dick had paid and Slade hadn’t even thought to question it.

Nevertheless, Slade had left the restaurant with a feeling of satisfaction. He didn’t like unfinished business, but the company had been great and judging by Dick’s demeanor, his reputation wouldn’t take a hit. Nightwing was not someone to kiss and tell.

The third… contract… went much the same as the second one, only this time the people they were trailing actually showed up, and Dick got the information he had paid Slade to get for him. Slade didn’t quite understand the disappointment on Dick’s face when they had to leave the restaurant early to beat up some human traffickers. Normally, the kid couldn’t sit still long enough to even enjoy a three-course meal, and that day Dick had ordered five-courses for them with a smile.

But then again… the food had been great, and Dick had laughed at almost all of Slade’s dry remarks. It was nice to finally be appreciated for his humor. Wintergreen only ever groaned and rolled his eyes.

It was later that very night, when Slade finished his post-contract routine, that the thought finally struck him: he and Dick had been going on dates.

The idea wasn’t as unsettling as it probably should have been.

Slade certainly didn’t complain the next two times his phone lit up with a by now familiar unregistered number. He certainly didn’t smile when Dick asked him for a contract or a mission or some help on a case. And he certainly didn’t laugh when said help included another restaurant Gotham’s Upper Crust liked to frequent.

It was the sixth date they’d been on, however, when something changed.

They were done eating, their wine long gone, when Dick signaled a member of the waitstaff to bring them the check. When the discreet black booklet appeared in front of Dick, Slade made a move to grab it. Something stopped him. Someone, to be more precise.

Dick had Slade’s wrist in an iron grip, the smile on his face never wavering:

“No, don’t bother. I’ll take care of it. You just enjoy the _mission._ ”

The wink underlining the end of Dick’s sentence told Slade enough: Dick was well aware that Slade no longer believed in the farce, even if they managed to stumble into a case and some clean-up work once they left the restaurant. Slade nodded, contemplating their relationship, as he leaned back.

Dick paid.

Slade went home and called Wintergreen.

It was then that his eyes were rather forcefully opened to the true nature of his relationship with Dick. Wintergreen had served five deployments together with Slade, they had joked behind enemy-lines and held each other as they bleed. There was no such thing as a secret between them… there was also no such thing as tact:

“Oh, Wilson… this is hilarious. This is the best thing to happen to me since that bar fight in Hanoi you started _and_ lost.”

“Cut it.”

“No… No, I don’t think you understand how hilarious this is, Wilson. You got yourself a Sugar Daddy. A Sugar Daddy that is… thirty-three years younger than you.”

Slade ended the call when Wintergreen started laughing. The last thing he heard was some choked gasp for air… it would serve the bastard right to suffocate on his own spit. Slade had never claimed to be anything but a petty person.

The only problem was… well, Wintergreen was right. And Slade was not entirely sure what to do with that revelation.

He was an ex-army soldier, an excellent mercenary, a shit father and mentor… he was in his late fifties, even if he looked no day older than forty-five. The serum had been good for something, after all. And Dick was… well, Dick was Nightwing, a hero so unabashedly good, sometimes Slade wanted to scream into his pillow out of frustration.

Whenever they physically fought Slade felt alive because he enjoyed the challenge Nightwing presented. Yes, Slade was stronger and faster, with an extra twenty-years of experience under his belt, but Nightwing had trained with the best, had learned how to make up for every disadvantage imaginable, had perfected how to think on the spot.

When Slade fought Nightwing… he could never be sure who would win. And that was exhilarating. Call him a romantic, but Slade had always liked the taste of danger and the beat of excitement that came from being challenged. Slade liked it when things were complicated – otherwise he would never have married Adelaide.

And now his challenger, his equal on the battlefield… was propositioning him with money for non-existent contracts, and food so divine, not even Wintergreen could hope to prepare something this tasty. For a moment Slade toyed with the idea of being insulted. He was Deathstroke. He was on more Most-Wanted-Lists than there were countries on this earth.

And yet… it wasn’t that easy, was it?

He regularly sold his services for money. His body hadn’t belonged to him since he put his name on the NDA back when he was young and foolish and an idealist. Was it really that much of a change of pace to accept money to go on dates with someone who could have anyone should he ask? Dick Grayson didn’t need to pay Slade to go on a date with him, which left only one explanation: He _wanted_ to pay Slade to do it.

Maybe it was a kink, maybe the kid had more issues than Slade had been previously aware off… but in the end, it was the kid’s choice to buy Slade’s time.

And the food was good, the company maybe even better.

But just because Slade had somewhat accepted his predicament, didn’t mean he had any idea on how to proceed. Should he call Dick and tell him that he knew what the younger man was doing? Should he avoid Blüdhaven for a while just to drive home some kind of statement about independence? Should he break into Dick’s apartment, scare the living daylights out of him, and force him to explain himself?

Currently, Slade was seriously contemplating option three.

In the end, he didn’t have the time.

Ra’s called and Slade spent the next three weeks in the Brazilian jungle cursing every assassin he had ever come across. After that came Buenos Aires and a call from Shiva. Tokyo and Savage. Chicago and KGBeast – though that one was a personal act of revenge.

Before he knew it three months had passed without a single word from Dick. The burner phone the two of them had previously used to communicate was silent – not even one missed call. Not even a text message.

Just silence.

Slade was most decidedly not moping.

No, staying in bed for the entire week he’d been home was not called moping. It was called relaxing, _thank you very much Wintergreen_. The same could be said about his dietary choices – chocolate, ice cream, and green smoothies – since Slade simply never allowed himself such indulgences otherwise. There was nothing wrong with letting himself go for once. Slade was simply… enjoying some time away from the constant stress and pressure of the job.

That excuse kept Wintergreen out of his mansion for almost six days. And then… well, and then Slade woke up because his horrible, horrible army buddy emptied an entire bucket of ice water onto him and his bed.

Slade had jumped up, aimed, and shot before Wintergreen could say Hi. It was only thanks to Slade’s superior reflexes that the bullet missed Wintergreen by mere inches. The smug look on his friend’s face told Slade he should have hit him. A bullet wound would teach the bastard some humility. Wintergreen could use it.

“What are you doing here?”

“Saving you from yourself. As usual. Now get up and run ten laps, or I’ll withhold all the coffee in this ridiculously big house of yours.”

“You couldn’t. Wouldn’t.”

“I know where all your secret stashes are… we served together. Never forget that, Wilson.”

Slade wouldn’t.

Fourteen laps and two cups of delicious Ethiopian coffee later, and Wintergreen was ready to talk. Slade had no choice but to listen.

“Since you decided to be utterly useless those past few days, I decided to go and look for your next contract. And imagine what I stumbled upon, when I reached out to my contacts in Blüdhaven: your blue bird didn’t ditch you – he’s on a deep space mission for the foreseeable future. So… now that you no longer have any excuse to mope… I have a job for you.”

Slade ignored the relief flooding through his veins. He was a professional. And he wasn’t moping.

Instead, he nodded as Wintergreen told him the parameters of his new job. What else was he supposed to say? No? Not when there was a chance to blow up some warehouses. Wintergreen simply knew how to make a mission fun.

Slade had just finished tying up the last of the assholes involved in the smuggling scheme, the fire of the last explosion still illuminating the docks, when the sound of soft footsteps coming closer reached him. He whirled around, gun ready, muscles tense, only to find Dick on the other end of the barrel.

He was wearing his Nightwing uniform, dark shadows visible underneath his eyes, even through the protection of his mask. Dick was exhausted and tired… he must have come as soon as he could. His next words only confirmed what Slade had already known:

“Hi… sorry for being this late. The original plan was to beat them up together. Some fun bonding time, you know. But, well, my spaceship got delayed and now here we are.”

“Wintergreen set this up.”

“Please _, I_ set this up. Wintergreen simply helped.”

Dick was grinning, something feral in the twist of his lips. Slade felt… unsettled. Puzzle pieces rearranged themselves in his mind, until he could see the picture in front of him. Wintergreen had searched for Dick, he had found him, and while Slade was gone, the two of them arranged this… _mission_.

Slade would have to have a serious talk with Wintergreen about the importance of personal boundaries.

“What do you want?”

Maybe it was time they stopped playing games. Maybe it was time they finally talked. Slade was good at being straight-forward, especially since the kid kinda sucked at it, so he used that to his advantage. He made him talk.

And Dick Grayson loved to talk.

“I want _you._ I want to own you and buy you pretty things and I want to fight next to you and feel bones breaking underneath my fists. I’ll always be a good guy and you’ll always be one of the bad guys – and… and I don’t want to change that. But- God, this sounds really stupid… But just the idea of having you, owning you… that’s like the hottest shit ever.”

“So, it’s a kink then?”

“No. Yes… maybe? Just tell me the idea doesn’t appeal to you. Big, strong Deathstroke, brought to his knees by Nightwing. I’ve seen it in your eyes, when I stopped you from paying. You were into it. You were aroused by the idea of me… controlling you. Owning you. Taking care of you.”

Slade hated the way his body reacted. His pulse accelerated, his gut clenched in lust… it only took one deep breath and Slade was back in control, but for a moment he had slipped. He had allowed this fantasy to affect him.

Dick’s fantasy. For him. _Them_.

He took too long to answer, if Dick’s grin was anything to go by. Dick looked as if he had already won, as if Slade had already submitted. And, okay, maybe the idea wasn’t as unpleasant as Slade had thought it would be, but that didn’t mean that Slade would make it easy for Dick.

“Maybe, I could be interested in your proposition. But first… we need to find out if you are truly worthy of spending your money on me.”

Slade attacked. Dick’s only answer was a gleeful cackle and a spark of electricity dancing down the length of his escrimas.

“Come and get me, tiger.”

And Slade did.


End file.
